Word falls apart.
AS SHATTERED NOTES PLUNGE the catchall of silence, urges-gestures--emerge along plot lines spelling rain. So it is written. But is to write this to say this? To say that experiences, cast for permanence, transport? Might a port go through a form, not to express, but to make material?
To questionable ends, endlessly, an alphabet-spectrum rises daily, one clean shade, from easterly B to highest E, suffusing light of indigo over every page and earth, above equivocal lids of cloud, to constitute/articulate.
Letters, aflutter, drive from The to A, a determinate range, to come to terms. One, glissandi go twenty-six stories, up! Two, hard architectures below the grind begin, ground throughout color. And three, real absence appoints preliminaries: A to Z. There is no telling where a letter goes without saying.
This balance, be it found, denotes entranced writs of significance, scaled to our knowable, placeable names. Over the total allocation presides ( ). Pronouncing geometries, graduating, ( ) classifies the frame.
April, and all that precipitates.
A delightful show, light shower, the busy raindrops tap like typists, any patter the key to a letter. Skies scroll by in one continuous sheet, typing over, whited out.
What colors commentaries this end of the literal?
A motorhome stopping by, to demonstrate in fields of inclement evenings, signifies Theater. The Chorus, our spiritual model, engaged in dramatically assertive address, with unnaturally ambiguous voice, bedecked in bells, comes dancing toward us, expressionlessly masked. He or she announces: their company has emulsified the vernaculars, then motions to open the windows and doors.
Inside clouded nighttime's chamber void of stars, beneath a rain replacing stars, under words instead of rain, with only letters not the words, a parade has been founded: to play of innocence, stuck in mud-ruts in tail grass, toward the one transparent, unquestioning audience? This parade has not foundered.
To set the sun, even the sun, among the analogies.
(Here was a grain, a definite way the woods went when the woods went, for a moment in effect, necessary to be respected.)
One sequence inevitable, signed like the rest of the past. And periodically more direct, bearing on the heart, borne, a rain more angular than time.
Farther on, beyond, be sheltered, be warm and safe, in a place not yet a place, within a graphic, faded house, you who lives to hear. May a susurrus of light applause come bathe the roof. May a mirror guised as panes replacing windows not confuse. So it's reading verses us in life, and loves the broken letters tame as unnamed sounds. There, between an M and N, lives my feeling's loud illiteracy.
Or what else do we draw from but belief? Into nightly crimsons jetting, each impending mortality of X, a word, sur-weighted with doubt.
Now, right now, as careful as I'll hold the nail while you hammer, with our two-kites-tied-together, peaceful justice-in-love, at the Address of Inclusion we see: sentences to be, martyrdoms and testimonies, spectral letters breathing wisdom's cries, where the body parts of songs weep from semantic clouds, pouring phrases over all the blossoming things, to open us.
GEOFF BOUVIER's recent work has appeared in New American Writing, Barrow Street, VOLT, and LIT. His unpublished manuscript, Whiteness, was a finalist for four major book awards in 2002, including the National Poetry Series. He currently waits tables and lives in San Diego.
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|Publication:||The American Poetry Review|
|Date:||May 1, 2003|
|Previous Article:||Six poems.|
|Next Article:||Inadequate memory and the adequate imagination.|